The Competitive Edge

Having grown up in a family with the credo if you don't win, don't bother, I am by nature a touch competitive. Hitting golf balls into the woods in my stocking feet during a recent family Thanksgiving brunch to impress my new son-in-law's 8 year-old niece, or going out for a pass in my party dress to demonstrate good hands, is not something I would consider strange. Mine was a childhood of overturned checkerboards, bent croquet wickets, fluttering piles of monopoly money, fifty-two pick-up. When we beat her at tennis, my mother refused to play. So, at a recent meditation retreat, when a game called "Qualities" was proposed, I hastily volunteered to be "it" in our group. A chance to shine! To show off my adroit wit and wicked wordplay skills! Better yet, to win!

The rules seemed simple, sort of like 20 Questions, only not. No direct questions, like is the person living or female or a political figure, but amassing instead the sort of qualities this mystery person (purportedly known to all) might embody. However, the answer, "a windy one," to my first question, " if this person were a tree, what sort of tree would this person be?" made me uneasy. It turned out that individual responses could be helpful or misleading, depending upon the individual. My task was to intuit the identity of the mystery person by firing a rapid series of nonsequential and often nonsensical questions at each person in the group. Apparently, an image configured by the nature of the answers would arise from vast mind. Oh, and no thinking, just feeling.

I began: "If this person were a pie, what sort of pie would he be?" Answer: Chocolate with oreo filling. "If this person were an article of clothing, what article of clothing would she be?" Answer: A pair of tight leather pants, with one leg slightly frayed. Gathering momentum, I continued, "If this person were a fish, what sort of fish would she be?" Answer: A flounder. As was I: floundering. "If this person were a song title..." Answer: Oh, Poor Lonesome Me. Shit! I became so obsessed with asking esoteric questions while appearing not to think (try it) that my brain seized up.

After 30 or so questions, I tried to bail. "Oh, okay, let someone else have a turn," I smiled. "I guess I don't get it." They said no. That was called "being on the spot." I had to be "it" until I got the answer.

"I've played where someone took five hours," one participant yawned.

"But, I don't want to be "it," I whined. "I quit."

"You can't quit," they said. That was called "riding my edge."

I rampaged through questions: "What sort of body part would this person be? (A leg.) What sort of vacation spot...?" (Neverland.)

"Great questions!" they said.

Finally, I was granted a few direct questions, but not before smacking the floor a few times and brushing away tears. The mystery person was male, dead, and had been in the entertainment business, although not necessarily a song writer. It was not Sammy Davis, Jr. From all corners of the room little bursts of cheers erupted fom those groups whose its had already guessed their person.

"This game dies when someone takes too long," Paul announced.

I fired more questions, but the answers were not always helpful: cloudy, someone from the Munsters, possibly a drummer, an African American, an American restaurant like Burger King, thunder clouds, a ferris wheel.

"Clearly your knowledge of pop is not where it needs to be," Depa said.

"You're so close," Dennis encouraged.

"Why would you want to be "it" when you've never played before?" Amaryllis muttered.

"If this person were a car, what car would he be?" I screeched. (A Lamborghini.) I nearly had it. When someone mentioned a white top hat and I blurted out Fred Astaire, I felt the answer slip away like mist. Ben Vereen? He was dancing there in our circle, sparks flying from his fingertips. He was...it had to be...

"Time's up," Will said. An hour and a half had passed. "Too bad," he added sorrowfully, "If only you'd thought younger."

"MICHAEL JACKSON!" I bellowed.

"Hooray, good one," someone giggled.

"You were so brave," Max said.

"Wasn't that fun?" Mary asked. She hadn't been "it" in her group. In her group three people had had turns.

I'll be traumatized for life, I thought. Utter humiliation. I slunk up to my room and pulled the covers around me like a shroud, roiling with rage and revenge fantasies, the week's tranquility shattered. But, then I remembered where I was: at a Buddhist meditation retreat. Then I remembered what to do: let it go. And I have. Totally.